


The Story of Us

by DarlingStar246



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Future Fic, M/M, Married Couple, Reminiscing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 08:07:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17679629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarlingStar246/pseuds/DarlingStar246
Summary: Archie loves Jughead. He really, really does.





	The Story of Us

**Author's Note:**

> This was created from too much time on my hands and a soft spot for this underrated pairing. Warning: this is my first fanfiction (ever). Please bypass the probably off characterisation and inaccurate plot flow. Anyway, it’s here to read if you want 😊

When the weight of the world is lifted from your weakened shoulders, victory is finally achieved. The howling wind passes, the air settles and you wonder how you overcame the storm. You wonder how you overcame all the past storms that decided to invade everything you held close. All those times when you were shocked to your core, beaten and defeated, needing a reprieve. Maybe, just _maybe_ , you're stronger than you think.

 

When life was knocking you off your feet; when Ms Grundy abused your innocence, when your dad was shot so long ago, when the Black Hood decided to ruin lives according to his own misguided will, when Hiram Lodge set out to kill you, when you decided to run, when the bear attacked and the scars remained; maybe those times were setting you up for right now.

 

Braver, more courageous, tougher. The world hasn't destroyed you just yet (although it has tried, _fuck_ , has it tried).

 

Softer in heart, more knowledgeable, wiser than you could have possibly imagined.

 

Your eyes find your husband, also wise beyond his years. He looks over and smiles at you, eyes glistening in the remains of the setting sun, hint of a smirk on his lips. You stare, unbeknownst to yourself. He's so fucking beautiful.

 

You were separated for a while. When _the kiss_ happened at fifteen years old, hidden inside the safe haven of the treehouse FP built when you were just kids. You weren't sure who kissed who. In the end though, it didn't matter, because it ruined your friendship anyway. It was never spoken about further. You loved him, even back then. You're almost certain of it; beating hearts and jittery hands, butterflies so active you think you will vomit them out. There's something terrifying about falling in love, especially when you're too young to properly understand it. So, you kissed, and then you broke apart. Despite everything you've been through, you think that was the worst kind of pain.

 

After all the drama; Betty and Veronica stealing hearts, Fred's accident, the black Hood destroying a town of sin, Hiram Lodge developing a personal vendetta against you, prison and the infamous game of Griffins and Gargoyles; you began a friendship again, slowly, with caution.

 

_The kiss_ remained a secret of sorts. It wasn't mentioned and it wasn't discussed.

 

Gladys. Fucking _Gladys_. On the run from Hiram Lodge, of all things, and she decides to open the can of worms hidden beneath the earth for so long, it was covered over with mounds of dirt; forgotten about below the growing anthill of more persistent problems.

 

"You two finally got together," she casually mentions behind a smirk and knowing eyes, like it's a fact that was written in the textbook of _Archie & Jughead_; one you both must have missed. Her acceptance and complete _unsurprised_ tone of voice makes you nervous, suddenly needing to defend something that wasn't a treat in the first place. You panic.

 

"No," you reply, even though all you wanted was the opposite. "We're just on the road together."

 

She nods, hiding a smile. "Sure." You know she doesn't believe you. You're not sure you would either. Fucking typical to be seventeen and _still_ in love with your best friend.

 

High school was not so much an ending but a new beginning. The sun shined brighter, the sky was a deeper colour blue and the veil of guilt, shame and condemnation that had followed you like an evil shadow seemed to lift. You began to accept the fact that it was okay that you loved a boy; a boy who was amazing and kind and sarcastic and very clearly _not_ a girl. I am allowed to love a boy, you think. I am allowed to love Jughead Jones, the boy you met when you were five years old in the playground, covered in sand, fingers in mouths from curiosity and innocence attached not unlike a portable version of the treehouse where _safe_ is.

 

Jughead, well, he was still beautiful, but that was never a surprise.

 

So, you kissed him on the porch of your dad's house a year later, nervous, hands jittery, a deep feeling of uncertainty making you hesitate. Different this time though, you tell yourself, because you're allowed to feel this love that's not tearing you apart anymore; it's stitching you both back together.

 

It was in that moment you began to actually _like_ yourself again. Jughead held you close, and you felt like you were sinking into him, warmth spreading throughout your body despite the cold night air, joy coursing through your veins and making your heart stutter. In was in that moment that you realised you could be liked back. That Jughead loved you _back_. That he chose you then, and that he continues to choose you every single day.

 

Three years later, Jughead proposed with an anxious smile and vibrant eyes, leftover dinner sitting on the coffee table. Pulls out a small box while you have pizza half way to your mouth, looks at you hopefully, fingers grasping the box so tight you think he will squish it flat. You hide your face in his neck and grin, covering up tears of joy and surprise, immersed in the boy you've loved since you were just a kid. Later while you were lying in bed, hair mussed and limbs tired, did he confess.

 

"I planned something more extravagant than that, but I couldn't help myself," and you understand. Your love is _extravagant_ enough.

 

After many therapy sessions and lots of encouragement and support, you begin to recover from all the trauma. Not completely. The anxiety creeps up every now and then. The depression kicks in occasionally when you least expect it, leaves you reeling without a handle to hold, forces you into bed and doesn't let you leave for days until the feeling dissipates and the rain cloud shifts. The panic attacks are rare now, though, and that's fortunate.

 

_Life_ is okay right now. It's good.

 

Later, dad comes over with steaks and sausages. Brings beer and a whole lot of love; perfect. Betty and Veronica join the gathering, salad in one hand and wine in the other, staggering in with excitement like they already opened the bottle. Kevin arrives last with his boyfriend, Mitch, a lovely guy he met back in college. They bring their fabulous selves, because what more could you possibly need?

 

You smile and laugh, eyes crinkling with delight.

 

Your guitar makes an appearance half way through the evening, the voices of Betty and Veronica lifting into the night sky, carrying a tune of love and harmony. Beer and wine are overflowing and with it comes terrible dance moves and flamboyant giggling and chatter. Your two Labradors, ones you convinced Jughead to let you have after Vegas' passing, jump playfully, enveloped in the group atmosphere.

 

At last, after all these years, you find yourself at peace, a place of comfort that the group surrounding you supply wholeheartedly and without complaint. Jughead brings you a plate of brownies (thank you Betty and her wonderful baking skills) and kisses you tenderly, asks how you are.

 

"l'm fine," you reply, because it's the truth. You catch him smiling at you fondly.

 

"What?" you ask. He just turns away, a soft look emanating from his face. So beautiful. Always has been, even back in school when you were both playing together in the treehouse. Even before _the kiss_ , when tired eyes were straining to stay awake, needing each other more than sleep.

 

It hasn't all been easy. There was that time you had a fight so severe, you thought that was the end of it. You both yelled so loud, it felt like the flat was caving in from the echoes bouncing off the walls. You stormed out crying, tears blurring your vision until you couldn't see properly, tripping on furniture on the way out. He called you, ten minutes after you left, crying on the phone.

 

"I'm Sorry baby, I'm so sorry, please come back." You came back, like you always do. Like you could do anything else.

 

There was that time you didn't speak to Jughead for four days, covered by a blanket in the spare bedroom, physically warm but heart growing cold, feeling like giving up. Feeling like a fire in a world full of oxygen and tinder, destroying everything in its path, destructing, charring, on a path to burn, burn, burn. You didn't deserve Jughead, and sooner or later the flames will engulf him too. Instead, he leaves bottles of water by your bed every night, like he understands that it's needed to extinguish the burning in your chest, like he _knows_. He brings you food and chocolate, and kisses you on the forehead. Breaths oxygen into your veins and builds a spark, not to burn but to _flourish_. Whispers to you just before he closes the door (because he knows, he _knows_ you need time alone), asks you to come back.

 

"Please come back to me." The fire disintegrates, embers turning to faint reds and yellows until eventually, the colours turn to the sky, into a rainbow that appears after rain, opening your eyes and seeing Jughead, only Jughead, realising that the pot of gold never left.

 

There was that time FP came down with the flu, nauseated and vomiting, pain in his stomach and fatigued. Visited the doctor when the symptoms didn't disappear. Entered undeterred and left with liver disease. Excessive drinking, the doctor had said, but all Jughead heard was 'alcoholic father' and 'why, why, why' from his own thoughts.

 

"Serves him right" he would say, whisky in hand and eyes full of tears, drinking away his problems like his father did for years. "Like father, like son" You knew better.

 

They loved each other, despite past circumstances. So, you let Jughead drink the glass of alcohol and weep, folded on the couch and body heaving, pushing you half-heartedly away with trembling hands. You let him cry with his dad, FP Jones, a father who was never really there for his son but loved him none the less. Told Jughead so in a night of confessed terrible decisions and regret.

 

"I'm sorry Jughead. I am. For everything I put you through" Jughead softened, said that it was okay.

 

Through conversations of alcohol addiction, losing his mum and sister, homelessness and pain, their relationship slowly transformed into that of a father and his son; the one Jughead deserved from the beginning. It was only after FP passed, Jughead curled against you on the couch under the quilt cover, that he admitted he always would have forgiven his father. He just wished it wasn't under such awful conditions.

 

"It's choices in life that determine outcomes,"; Jughead had said. "Dad chose alcohol and I chose you, so I think I'm doing pretty well."

 

You believe it.

 

You have your head on Jughead's shoulder now, observing your surroundings. Dad's laughing with the girls, animated, hands gesturing wildly, telling a story of sorts. They're all giggling and carrying on, tripping over their own feet, wine drunk and shining with delight. Kevin and Mitch have separated into their own little huddle, conversing quietly, eyes shining with unadulterated affection. You're happy for him, because one of the best people you've ever known has found love, and that's important. The dogs are snoring on the porch, legs kicking from an unfinished dream, exhausted from their efforts. The air is clean and crisp, twinkling stars visible in the clear night sky.

 

Dad looks over at you both with sparkling eyes, mischief coating his features. It reminds you of when you first told him about Jughead, about how you're together. No dad, _together_. He laughed, open mouthed, and you realised that he wasn't surprised in the slightest. "It's inevitable" he finally responds, like he had a copy of the _Archie & Jughead_ textbook too, and you question why you were both the last to know.

 

Sometimes, you will catch him staring at you both and frown, eyes sad, like he's transported to the past when FP was still alive; young and wild, carefree like only a youth understands. You wonder if dad misses him, or if he just sees Jughead in him, but then the look will disappear and all that's left is a history of crazy antics and unanswered questions. Dad's happy though. You see it in the way he looks at you, proud and elated, gleaming in the person you became, that you _are_.

 

You're lucky, you think, and you are worth it, because for a long time you didn't think you were. Didn't think you deserved any of it, especially not love. You do though, and now you know for sure. You realise it when you chase after your dogs, their tails whipping in the wind and barks loud and overjoyed. You realise it when you meet up with Betty for coffee down the street, gossiping and laughing hysterically, disrupting the patrons in the next seat over. You realise it when your watching horror movies with Veronica, huddled together under a blanket on the floor, friends above all else, past affection following you into the future. You realise it when you look at your dad and see the person you aspire to be, knowing that you're headed in the right direction. You realise it whenever you catch Jughead's eyes, discovering a love so deep, it surprises you every time.

 

"I love you," you say in the shadow of the moonlight, quietly so only Jughead can hear. He turns towards you, pecks you on the lips. "Love you too," he replies, and it's like you're hearing it for the very first time, even though he tells you every day.

 

You smile.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Well wasn’t that a joy to write. From Archie’s POV (of course) because I am an unapologetic Archie stan and I think he deserves the best. Appreciate your time!


End file.
